Why Mad Men Season 6 Will Ruin My Social Life
My social skills go out the window when Mad Men season starts.
April 07, 2013— -- Like almost everyone else on the planet, I prefer to set aside one Saturday a month to sit down and watch an entire season of a show, snacking on Cheetos and Hershey's chocolate milk boxes, rather than watching an episode a week.
Why?
Because who's into waiting a whole week to find out what's going to happen to [insert protagonist here]? Ridiculous. I might as well quit my job, cancel all plans, and throw out my razor because all I'm thinking about from Monday to Sunday is the next episode of [insert show title here].
Starting this Sunday, that show is going to be Mad Men. And if season 6 is anything like seasons 4 and 5, then let the torture that is keeping up with any awesome TV programming in real time begin.
I know this will be torture because for seasons 4 and 5 it was just that. Needless to say, Mad Men ruined my social life. It took over my vocabulary, my mood, my behavior, even my thought process. (What can I say, I take my entertainment seriously.) I believed everybody I met was sexist and I temporarily hated men -- even (or especially) when I was on date with one.
I'd order martinis -- I hate gin -- I'd speak in short sentences like they do on the show, I'd make Betty Draper "don't-give-a-f%$k" faces at whatever would come out of a date's mouth. Then I'd be offended when the same date tried to split the bill. I demanded respect and equality from men, but they still needed to open the door for me because everyone knows a gentleman always gets the door. Just ask Betty.
I started wearing dresses everywhere and wearing lipstick to my morning classes. I felt pigeon-holed at my internship workplace because I was a woman... (my internship was at Vogue... where it's basically only women). I was pretty annoying and as long as Mad Men was on every week, I didn't seem to know how to stop it.
But this isn't the only time this has happened.
During True Blood , I'm all of a sudden really OK with nudity, and blood -- two things I normally try to avoid at all costs. When I call out someone's name, I say it in either Bill's "Sookie" voice or Arlene's "Vampire Bill" southern accent. It's not a choice. It just happens.
When I was hooked on Friday Night Lights I thought in a Texas accent. I drank beer out of the bottle more often and I fantasized about Tammy Taylor's adolescence. When I wasn't doing that, I felt trapped by life like I was *spoiler* the star QB for a high school football team who becomes paralyzed and remains in a small town with no escape. None of these fears were logical, and with my roommate's self-imposed rule of only watching Glee or Galaxy Quest, I had no one to talk to about them.
But Mad Men is different. It's a special kind of neurotic ridiculous obsession. When I finish an episode of True Blood or Friday Night Lights I'm so happy to not exist in those worlds. But when Don takes his final sip of the episode and glances over at some C-list actress who is about to drop down to her weird '60's granny panties and poorly constructed bra (thank you Victoria's Secret), I feel furious I can't be a part of that world.
Maybe I sound crazy, or maybe you totally understand where I'm coming from and have been waiting for someone else to say it first. Whatever the case, consider this my final piece of work with substance -- just kidding editors -- before the madness begins tonight at 9 p.m. on AMC.
Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go pour myself some scotch to go with my Cheetos.
